The Man I Love (The Road Trip #2)

21. Chapter Twenty-one

21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

July

Present Day

New Jersey

It was twenty minutes later when Sam finally emerged from the bathroom. Puffy eyed and red-faced, wearing a new maternity sundress that Renee had told her to put on. She needed to go back into the kitchen so the guys didn’t grow suspicious, but she stopped in the hallway, where muffled voices traveled to her ears. She placed her hand on the wall, then leaned close, careful not to make a sound.

“I never knew I could love someone so much,” Phin said. “I love your sister to death, but I love this baby in a way I never knew I was capable of.”

Tristan's baritone was barely audible. “I can imagine.”

“Are you ready for it, man?” Phin asked. “To be a dad?”

Samantha’s throat thickened as she waited for his reply. What if she didn’t like his answer? What if he wasn’t ready? What then? She pushed from the wall and forced herself to turn the corner.

Tristan and Phin were sitting at the bar, and all conversation ceased when she walked into the room. Sophia was high on Phin’s shoulder, and Tristan was at the bar, a paper plate piled high with food as he gazed in her direction. His eyes then drifted to her belly, to the dress she hadn’t been wearing when she left.

She wasn’t sure if it was paranoia, but she swore he looked confused. In truth, she was too. She’d stepped away to use the restroom in overalls and came back wearing this. It didn’t make any sense, but Renee said she had a plan, and being Sam’s ride or die since childhood, she went with it.

Sam squared her shoulders, walked into the kitchen, and pretended like every trace of her makeup wasn’t gone from her face. She picked up a paper plate and focused on the many choices of food in front of her—but none of them looked appetizing. Her stomach still ached, and her head pounded from her anxiety attack in the bathroom earlier.

“Everything okay?” Phin asked, causing Samantha to look up, just as Renee rounded the corner. She was whistling a tune and practically dancing into the kitchen.

“Me?” she stopped innocently. “Or do you mean Samantha?”

Samantha paused with an apple slice halfway to her mouth. Why in the world would Renee call her out when their mission had been damage control?

“Pregnancy bladder,” Renee blurted out.

What the hell? Sam’s eyes widened.

Renee took a chip from Tristan’s plate and popped it into her mouth. “You think you have everything under control, then BAM! They kick you in the ribs.” She dug a finger into Tristan’s side. “Just about there.”

Phin grinned and smothered his mouth with his hand to hide his amusement.

Renee began filling her own plate with food, and Sam turned to the refrigerator, wanting to crawl into it and hide.

“I once peed my pants in a grocery store parking lot,” Renee began. “One sneeze is all it took.

Sam coughed, knowing Renee was trying to be helpful, but she wanted to strangle her!

Phin stood from his seat, hoisting Sophia higher onto his shoulder as he stared at Tristan with an amused, yet sympathetic expression. “Welp,” he said as he patted Sophia on the back. “You done? Want to go see my garage?”

Tristan still had a full plate of food in front of him but was suddenly on his feet. “Sure,” he said. “Lead the way, brother.” But as he passed Samantha by the refrigerator, she swore his eyes shifted down to her crotch.

Samantha waited until they were alone, then slammed the refrigerator door closed and turned to Renee. “I’m going to kill you!”

Renee covered her mouth, barely able to suppress her giggles as she bent at the waist. “Oh my God, did you see their faces?”

Sam walked toward the counter, leaned her back against it, and slinked down to the floor. “He thinks I peed my pants,” she said in disbelief. “He totally thinks I wet myself.”

Renee folded on the floor, her arms gripping her stomach as she laughed with hysterics.

Sam was unsure if she wanted to murder her best friend, disown her, or laugh along with her.

“They just...” Renee stammered out. “Then you…”

“You planned that,” Sam said in exasperation. “You had me change into this dress knowing you were going to tell them I peed my pants.”

Renee wheezed, gulping in air. “I swear I didn’t!” she sucked in another breath. “It just came out! I had to come up with something. Are you mad?”

Sam crossed her arms at her chest, but Renee’s manic giggles became contagious. “I’m glad you find this so amusing.” She smiled, then a giggle escaped her, even though she tried her hardest to hold it in. She had to admit, the sight of Phin and Tristan so flustered had been quite amusing.

Renee rolled to her back, her eyes locking on the ceiling as she held her aching stomach. “Phin says I only laugh like this when I’m with you.”

Sam smiled, then stretched her legs out in front of her, and Renee adjusted to lay her head in Samantha’s lap. It was true. They always laughed––a little harder, and a little sillier––than with anyone else in existence.

“Damn I’m going to miss you.” Renee sobered, turning to her side to put her hand on Sam’s belly.

They stayed like that for hours, talking about everything and nothing until it was time to leave. Sam cried the entire way back to the highway––knowing it would be months before she saw Renee again.

Tristan gave her space. Not commenting on her emotions, even when her tears became audible blubbers. With a tissue to her nose, Sam grabbed the binder out of her bag, and flipped to her Tbr list in the back, and picked out her next audiobook: Ina May Gaskin, Guide to Childbirth .

They’d left not even thirty minutes before, yet Sam was already feeling miserable. In the short drive back to the highway, her lower back had already adhered to the vinyl seat, and the space between her boobs and belly had begun to sweat.

She placed her earbuds in her ears, closed her eyes, and pressed play on her book.

“You okay,” Tristan asked, when she picked up the binder and began fanning herself with it.

She peeked one eye open and looked at him. “I’m hot.”

He reached toward the dash, directing his airflow in her direction. “I can see that.”

“You’re not?” She took the earbuds from her ears and shoved them into her bag.

“I’m not what?” He glanced up at her.

“Hot?”

He only stared out the windshield for what felt like a full minute, then lifted his shoulders and shrugged. “I’m fine.”

For some reason, his response irked her. It made her want to lean across the seat and wrap both of her hands around his neck. I’m fine. She repeated in a singsong voice inside her head. I’m fine. I’m Tristan, who isn’t eight months pregnant in the middle of July. I’m fine.

The heat, as well as her hormones, were getting the better of her. She decided the best thing to do was to ignore him and close her eyes again.

“What’s that?” she heard him ask five seconds later.

She wanted to outwardly groan, but she held it in. “What’s what?”

“That,” he replied, flicking his eyes to the notebook on the bench seat between them.

“Oh,” she opened the binder, then flipped through the pages. “The itinerary for our trip.”

He made a face. “The itinerary?” He seemed amused as if the only reason to have an itinerary would be for a vacation.

She took a deep breath, suddenly feeling like she needed to defend herself. “I didn’t want it to be like last time—” But she stopped herself, then glanced out the window, hoping he wasn’t paying attention.

“What about last time?” He focused on the open road ahead, but his voice lowered slightly, as though the mention of their last trip bothered him.

She’d told herself she wasn’t going to bring up the past, and she certainly hadn’t planned to bring up their last trip. The one where things got heated, and hot, and ended with them falling into his bed and in love. She gazed out the window, as memories played in her mind like a broken record. “We should arrive at our hotel by dinnertime,” she said out loud, her voice far off and distant.

One brow arched over his glasses. “You booked a hotel?”

“I’ve planned everything. Gas stations, restaurants, every hotel has a paid reservation.”

“I’ll pay you back,” he said gruffly.

She shook her head. “That’s not necessary.” She’d made more than enough money while in New York, the least she could do––”

“I’ll pay you back,” he said, interrupting her thought. Though this time his hands were taut on the steering wheel, and he looked annoyed.

“Fine. Then I’ll pay you back for the truck.”

“Are we keeping track now?” he asked, not even allowing the last word to fully exit her lips.

This was something they’d never done before. There was never a his and hers , a yours and mine . When they lived together it was us . Ours . They worked as a team for everything.

But things had changed since then.

Everything was different.

Of course they wouldn’t share bills on this trip.

“I guess we are.” She squared her shoulders firmly. “You got the truck. The least I can do is pay for the rooms?—”

“Why?”

“To thank you?—”

He pulled the truck off the road, his eyes straight ahead as he came to a full stop at the curb.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her hands braced on the dashboard.

He sat there for a moment, his hands on the steering wheel and his concentration on the road. “Please stop thanking me,” he urged softly.

She pulled one leg into her seat and turned to face him. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“That’s my baby growing in your belly.” He tossed his glasses on the dash and turned to face her again. “My responsibility.” His eyes burned a hole straight into her soul. “You are the mother of my child.”

Her heart squeezed a little, but heat flushed her cheeks.

“You’re not alone, Samantha,” he said softly. “I’m here—I want to be here. I want to be a part of this. I want to help you without you feeling like you owe me in return.”

She hadn’t been expecting that. Emotion bubbled up in her chest. She’d felt alone for so long. He’d left her alone, and now he was telling her she wasn’t.

“I’m not really sure where I fit in.”

Her heart pinched at his words, and she looked away. She wasn’t sure either. She wasn't sure how to do any of this, but the vulnerability she heard in his voice was almost her undoing.

“I’m the father, and it’s my job to take care of you. To support you. That’s all I’m trying to do.”

Sam swallowed hard, not knowing at all what to say. In part he was right. She was rejecting anything he offered her. Partly out of pride. Partly out of hurt.

“I realize you don’t want me anymore,” his gaze turned to the road again, “but that doesn’t change the fact that we have a child together.”

She chewed on her fingernails.

On one hand she should be happy—because despite everything that had happened between them, Tristan was vowing to be there for her and the baby. On the other, she wanted to vomit, hearing him say that she didn’t want him anymore. She wanted to correct him. To tell him that the truth was quite the opposite––but maybe it was better this way. Maybe the truth would only make things more complicated.

Eventually, he merged back on the highway, and the rest of the drive was filled with any music she could find on the radio. Some sort of country station that played endless songs about fishing, drinking, and falling in love.

When they finally got to the hotel outside of Pittsburgh, Sam was exhausted and could hardly keep her eyes open. They parked in the very back of the lot, which happened to be the only space large enough for the truck. She peeled her legs from the vinyl seat, opened the door, and then hopped out to the pavement, where she felt instant relief after sitting in the same position for too long.

“What do you want to eat?” Tristan asked.

She waddled toward the front desk with one hand supporting her back. “Nothing,” she muttered, because the heat, along with the movement of the truck had made food seem like the least appealing thing on earth.

They checked in at reception and received two keycards.

“Just tell me what you want?” he asked again. “Pizza? Burgers? A salad?”

She pulled in a breath and pressed the up arrow to the elevator. “Honestly, I’m exhausted. I just want to take a shower, climb into bed, and sleep.” It was the honest to God’s truth, but before she even finished her sentence, he was shaking his head. “What?” she asked, huffing in a breath.

“You need to eat something, Samantha. Anything you want. I’ll go get it.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated. “I have a protein bar in my purse.”

“That’s not enough?—”

“Yes, it is!” she snapped.

The doors to the elevator opened and she stepped inside with a group who looked like they came from the pool. Tristan came in beside her, standing so close that his arm brushed her elbow.

“You’re eating for two,” he whispered in her ear.

She took a deep breath, trying not to let his closeness affect her. She ignored how rich and scratchy his voice sounded.

“That’s not really true,” she said, finding his reflection in the mirrored doors of the elevator.

“I may be the mother of your child,” she whispered, “but this is my body, my uterus, and I’ll do what I want with it.”

He narrowed his eyes at her reflection, but the corner of his lip lifted as though he found her amusing. That was when her scope of vision broadened, and she realized everyone in the elevator was listening to their conversation.

The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, and Samantha rushed through the doors as soon as they opened.

She shuffled down the hall, wishing she could gain more speed, but her large stomach weighed her down. She fumbled for the key in her purse hoping she could get into her room without confrontation.

“Do you need help?” Tristan was right behind her.

“No.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” She was flustered, and she needed to get away as quickly as possible. She wrapped her fingers around the keycard and yanked it out of her purse. “There it is!” She sighed.

He was leaning against the wall, watching her as she scanned the card, then slinked into the room without saying another word.

She closed the door and locked it behind her, then pressed her back firmly onto the surface as if to hold it shut. The air conditioning was cool and welcoming. So easily he could make her pulse race, make her memory wander to a million different memories of their past relationship. Her eyes focused on the hotel room, and the king-sized bed that welcomed her like a cloud. The last time she’d been in a hotel had been with Tristan and the memory made her cheeks flush. They hadn’t done much sleeping. Hardly any sleeping at all. Pushing the thought aside she walked toward the green accent chair in the corner where she located the air conditioner controls on the wall and repeatedly pressed the down arrow, only content when a snowflake appeared on the screen.

A knock sounded on the door, and she spun around. “For fuck’s sake. Can’t a girl catch a break?

“What?” she asked, when she marched toward the door and swung it wide open.

Tristan was still leaning in the entryway, though this time a Tiffany blue colored toiletry bag swung from his finger. “I thought you might need this,” he said.

She cleared her throat, realizing she must have left it in her hurry to get away from him. “Thank you.” She snatched the bag from his finger.

He didn’t move.

“Did you need something?”

“No.”

“Then why …” But she really didn’t need him to answer her. She glanced down to her feet, pulled in a lung full of air, then met his eyes again. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m tired and?—”

He shook his head. “It’s okay. Today has been stressful for both of us.”

She nodded her head and averted her gaze to the textured wallpaper in the hall. Until that moment, she hadn’t considered how difficult this trip would be for him too. She’d been so focused on herself. On leaving New York and wrapping up all she needed to do with The Gallery.

He raked his hand through his hair, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

“Tris––”

“Goodnight, Samantha.” He rolled his shoulder away from the wall and walked into his room, then closed it gently behind him as though he hadn’t realized she’d been speaking.

Her jaw went slack, and it took a long time for her to pry herself away from the door and return to her room. He’d done the same thing she’d done to him less than two minutes earlier, yet she still wanted to knock his door down and tell him how rude it was. Frankly, the only thing that stopped her was the fact that she had so little trust in herself when it came to Tristan Montgomery. She either fell into his bed or got into an argument. There was no middle ground.

With their drive ahead, and a baby in their very near future, she couldn’t risk another fight. Instead, she walked into her bathroom, stripped off all her clothes, and climbed inside the shower while the water was still cold. The icy temperature was exactly what she needed to rid her body of excess heat and to calm her raging hormones. The day, which at some points felt as though it would never end, washed down the drain with soap that smelled like roses— but then the nagging words of her best friend were back, playing in her head and firing her right back up again. How can you move on if you haven’t even talked about what happened? Samantha wasn’t sure it was true. There were many cases when the best thing to do was forget. What was the purpose of bringing things up repeatedly? Did they really need to talk about what happened at The Gallery opening? Or would talking it out only make things raw again?

She didn’t have the answer, and eventually turned up the heat a little, letting the warmth of the water soothe her aching back.

By the time she was finished with her shower, she felt ten times better, but then she stepped out onto the tile and her stomach began to gurgle. “Damn him,” she whispered. Remembering the protein bar in her purse, she snatched the robe from the back of the door and went to retrieve it––a knock sounded at her door again.

“What does he want now?” she whispered, forcing her arms through the sleeves. She pulled the knot tight above her belly, yanked open the door, and quickly recoiled. It wasn’t Tristan.

“Oh, hi!” she said, pulling the edges of her robe a little closer.

“Room service,” a man said chirpily. He looked no more than twenty years old and proceeded to come into the room without an invitation.

She jumped out of his way. “I think you have the wrong room,” she said, following two steps behind him. She watched as he unloaded plates, dishes, and condiments onto the bedside table.

"He mentioned you might say that,” he murmured.

“He?” Samantha glared at him, folding her arms at her chest.

The bellhop lifted a glass checking for spots, then used a pristine white napkin to rub it clean.

For a second, Samantha contemplated beating Tristan’s door down and demanding he explain himself, but the amount of adrenaline pumping through her veins told her that was a bad idea.

The bellhop continued to arrange the dishes, then spun to face her, producing a yellow piece of paper from his pocket which he straightened against his chest.

“I’m, ah”— he cleared his throat— “supposed to read this to you.”

Samantha’s jaw was tight, and her heart was beating so hard she began to feel lightheaded. “Go on.”

The bellhop's fingers were visibly shaking, and she thought he might be even more nervous about the note than she was.

“Samantha,” He cleared his throat, then adjusted his stance slightly. “I ordered you food. Because either you’re hungry, or––”

Samantha’s eyes bulged. “That’s enough!” She held up a hand stopping him.

All the color drained from the bellhop’s face, and he dropped the note on the carpet.

She already knew what the letter was going to say. Either she was hungry or hadn’t been fucked well in a really long time. The same words he’d used in a cafe parking lot on their first cross-country trip. “Sorry, I...” She moved toward him, but the bellhop quickly picked up the note as though it had caught fire and tossed it on the table. Then without another word he lowered his head, took hold of his cart, and wheeled it out of the room.

When he was gone and the door was shut, Samantha walked to the table and picked up the piece of lined yellow paper. Tristan always kept a notepad like this in his work truck. In spite of herself, she unfolded the note and stared at it for a long time. The handwriting was the same messy, bold scrawl that had once formed love notes—the kind that made her believe in happily ever afters.

Samantha,

I ordered you food. Because either you’re hungry, or the baby is.

Fuck! She’d been so wrong. Of course he wouldn’t have written that for others to see. She closed her eyes briefly, as shame made her eyelids heavy, but she forced them open again and continued to read.

The waitress recommended the burger, so that’s what I ordered for you. It has everything on it, but if something else pleases you, I told them to put it on my tab.

–– Tristan

She remembered the first time they shared a burger together. It was the moment she’d begun to question her and Steven’s relationship. The moment she began to question so many things. She dropped the note on the table, unable to resist the aroma of the food any longer, and lifted the silver lids off of one of the trays. French fries and a hamburger with everything on it, just like he’d said. The second was a large slice of strawberry cheesecake with a dollop of whipped cream on top.

She sat heavily down on the chair. “Damn it!” Then picked up the burger with both hands and took a bite. The juicy burger satisfied her every craving. It hurt her pride to admit it, but she was ravenous in every way possible. Damn him.